Windwalker (32 page)

“If you were a pup, I’d suspect that your mother befriended a bear,” Fyodor said. “Of course, if you were a pup, I’d have to drown you or risk weakening the kennel. Who would have thought my Uncle Simaoth’s litter could produce such a runt?”

Petyar grinned and tugged his foot free. “The cobbler complains that if I grow any more I’ll be wearing boots of unmatched leather. He’ll have to slaughter two rothé cows to get enough for a pair!”

“If you wish to provide the cobbler with a single piece of leather, there is an easy solution,” Fyodor teased. “Those feet were made for dragonhide boots.”

The boy chuckled delightedly. “Easy enough, now that you’re back home! You’ll go snow racing with us tomorrow?”

“Why? Does a white dragon await us in the mountains?”

The gleam in the boy’s eyes darkened. “Worse,” he said flatly. “A black wolf.”

Fyodor received this news in silence. Petyar had been born the same spring as Vastish’s firstborn, and the boys had grown up like brothers. The death of his favorite cousin had cast a deep shadow over young Petyar’s life, and left him with an indelible and unreasonable hatred of wolves.

“Has this wolf done any harm?” Fyodor asked at last.

“Not yet. It has been seen lurking near the village.”

“How near? The refuse hill? The fields?”

“The forests,” the boy admitted.

“Petyar.”

The young man responded with a defiant shrug. “Do not say you haven’t been warned. The snow race should be a contest, not a hunt! If you are content to be a wolfs prey, so be it. I at least will keep close watch.”

“That you will watch closely I do not doubt,” Fyodor said somberly, “especially if Treviel’s daughters join the race.”

A grin edged its way onto Petyar’s face. “What of it? There is no harm in looking.”

“I will pass that thought along to the fyrra,” Fyodor suggested. “Perhaps he will have it carved upon your coffin.”

The boy chuckled and reached for the oil lamp. “Time for sleep, or tomorrow morn we won’t know whether we’re looking at wolves or women.”

Fyodor settled down on his cot and sent a wry smile into the darkness. “Sometimes it is difficult to tell.”

“Aye,” Petyar agreed, in a tone that suggested he had vast experience in such matters. After a moment’s silence, he added, “You have met many such women in your travels?”

The wistful tone in the young man’s voice was familiar to Fyodor. He had heard it this night from his sister’s children, fully two-score neighbors, and even the fyrra. Now he had no heart for more stories and scant voice left to speak them. Instead he offered, “I have known Sashyar all my life.”

Petyar let out a hoot of amusement. “Now I have no fear of the fyrra’s wrath! Go on, tell Treviel that I admire his pretty daughters. I have a weapon to match yours.”

Fyodor thought of the blunt, black sword resting against his cot and prayed with all his heart that the boy’s words would never come to pass.

Liriel’s tour of the Witches’ Lodge was not quite what she had expected. For one thing, the complex was more extensive than she’d gathered from first impression. It went on and on, covering the top of the hill that crowned the village and stretching down much of the back slope. In addition to the great hall and the warriors’ barracks, there was a temple to the Three, the goddesses who formed the center of Rashemi worship. The temple was a lovely thing, with a rounded domed roof guarded by a trio of towers. Still, how was such a thing possible?

“One temple for three goddesses?” Liriel demanded.

“One goddess, if you prefer. We worship the triple goddess: maiden, mother, and wise woman,” Zofia explained. “They are called by other names in other lands. We of Rashemen also have our names for them, but these are our own and must not be spoken to outsiders. Come - I will show you the bathhouse.”

This proved to be a small, round, windowless building constructed of stone and roofed with slate. The old witch pulled open the door. Steam escaped, along with a sudden, rushing energy that was more than air.

Liriel peered inside. In the center of the room was a well filled with rocks that glowed with heat. A large bucket had been suspended over it with ropes running from it to the wooden benches built against the walls. Liriel saw the purpose of this at a glance. Anyone desiring a steam bath would pull a rope and tip a bit of water onto the hot rocks. The drow had similar steam houses, albeit magical ones, in Menzoberranzan.

Fyodor’s sister sat on one of these benches, a linen sheet wrapped around her. She gave them a pleasant nod—and vanished.

“The Bannik,” Zofia said casually. “A spirit of health and divination. Most bathhouses have one. If you see a familiar person in the bathhouse who should not be there, do not take alarm. It is only the Bannik.”

“If I see a familiar person, I’d be a fool not to take alarm,” Liriel muttered.

The witch gave her a curious stare. “It is so? You have many enemies?”

“I’m not sure what a Rashemi means by ‘many’ enemies,” Liriel prevaricated.

Zofia let out an amused chuckle. “Well said. It would seem that Fyodor has told you some of our tales. What a storyteller he would have made!” she said wistfully.

Liriel considered these words and discarded them as unimportant. Most likely Rashemi storytellers devoted their lives to this art, as did human bards or drow deathsingers. Fyodor had taken a warrior’s path instead.

“I felt something leave when we entered. What was that?”

“Who can say?” Zofia responded. “The Bannik sometimes invites friends to the bathhouse. Forest spirits, water spirits, demons.”

The drow took a cautious look over her shoulder. “This doesn’t bother you?”

“Do you think that one spirit has the power to heal or to divine?” Zofia demanded. “The Bannik are powerful because they have friends. It is a lesson we Rashemi have learned well.”

They closed the door and moved on to the main building. Zofia shook her head. “None but a witch may enter. No outlander is permitted within, not even one with a wychlaran’s training. Even if you were who you claim to be, you could not pass this door.” Zofia held up a hand, silencing Liriel. “That will keep. Come, I will show you to your hut.”

The two females walked in silence down the long road leading to the village wall. Liriel’s new home was surprisingly pleasant, a small hillock crowned with meadow grass still studded with summer flowers. Smoke rose from the small circle of stones, giving evidence of the dwelling within.

The single round room was heated by an iron stove. A large fur-covered bed filled one side, a small table and chairs the other. Pegs provided places for clothing. A washtub stood next to a shelf holding dishes and pots.

Zofia took down a samovar and set to work making tea. She also took from her bag a small loaf of bread, a salt cellar, and a white cloth.

“You will need these to befriend your domovoi. A house spirit,” she explained, responding to Liriel’s inquiring stare. “They are helpful and kind, and as long as you do not offend them they will protect your house and do some of your chores.”

“What am I supposed to do with these things?”

“Wrap the bread and salt in the cloth and stand in your open doorway. Invite the domovoi in with kind and pleasant words, then leave the gift under the threshold stone. There is a special hollow there, of course.”

“Of course,” Liriel echoed, feeling slightly dazed by this recitation. “What does a domovoi look like?”

“Oh, don’t expect to see it. You will hear it from time to time. It will hum when content and sigh or even groan when sad. Now, let us speak of you,” she said. Her keen blue eyes regarded Liriel steadily. “Tell me why you have come to Rashemen.”

“I came for Fyodor and to bring back the Windwalker.”

“Nothing more?”

The drow hesitated, not sure how far to trust the witch. She decided that she had little choice. Without Zofia’s patronage she would not have been allowed into this land at all.

“Another task was entrusted to me,” she said slowly. “I was given a tapestry in which are imprisoned the spirits of slain elves. I promised to free them.”

A light swept over Zofia’s face. “Now I understand. You are a morrigan!”

Liriel lifted a skeptical brow. “I wasn’t the last time I looked.”

The witch chuckled. “A raven, then. A being who moves between two worlds, between starlight and shadows. It is your task to see lost spirits home.”

This notion was entirely new to Liriel, and yet it had the uncomfortable fit of newfound truth. “Between starlight and shadows.” Fyodor had used that very phrase in a story he told her.

Still, this morrigan business was too much to absorb.

“Who decided this?” she said heatedly.

Zofia shrugged. “Who knows? Is our fate written on the day of our birth, or do we choose our paths?”

“You tell me.”

“Neither,” the old woman said, “or perhaps both. The future is not ours to know.”

“Fyodor has the Sight. He says you’re an Oracle.”

The witch inclined her head. “We see what might be, just as the fisherman sees the darkening clouds and knows that rain might fall. He also knows that a strong wind might come and blow the storm far from the Ashane, or that the song of the bheur—the blue hag, the bringer of Winter—might change the rain to snow.”

Liriel took this in. “What do you see for me?”

“Let’s have a look.”

Zofia took a bag from her belt and spilled several small, rune-carved stones onto the table. “These were made from bones left by creatures no living eye has seen. The ancient power of the land is in them. Gather them up and strew them on the table.”

Liriel did as she was bid. The old woman studied the result for long moments. At length she lifted her eyes to the waiting drow. “You will bind and break, heal and destroy. What you sought, you have found. What you love, you will lose—yet your heart will sing and not alone. You will make a place for those who walk between the starlight and the shadows.”

The drow considered these cryptic words. “At least rain clouds eventually get to the point.”

Zofia shrugged. “The wind will blow where it will. Keep the stones. Learn to listen to them, but do not seek to know your own future. That is courting ill fortune.”

She rose to leave. Liriel stepped caught the witch’s sleeve. “Do you know what I am?” she asked softly.

“Oh yes,” Zofia said. “You are a black wolf.”

The drow blew out a long breath that was part relief, part resignation. At least her deepest secret—or nearly so—was on the table.

“There are black wolves among every kind of creature,” the witch went on, “who are different from their kin, outcasts either by choice or birth. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, they have no place among their kindred. They walk alone. I say black wolf because oftentimes a rogue wolf has a dark coat. Is such a beast shunned by its kind because of its hide, or does it hunt alone because of differences hidden beneath?”

This explanation struck Liriel as ambiguous as her “fortune.” Did Zofia know that her guest was a dark elf or didn’t she?

“I’ll try not to keep the village awake with my howling,” she grumbled.

The witch chuckled. “Sleep, then. Tomorrow you take the next step on your path.”

She went her way. Liriel gathered up the bread and salt and stood in the open door. “This is for the domovoi” she said, feeling rather foolish. “You’re welcome to come in.” No further pleasantries came to mind, though she tried to think of some.

“Hang old shoes in the yard,” called Zofia without looking back. “The domovoi like that.”

“Kill me now,” Liriel muttered. Resolving that the house spirit would have to make do with an evening snack, she put the gift under her stone and closed and latched her door. She fell facedown into the fur coverlet and was asleep almost at once.

Some time later, she became aware of a most peculiar feeling, a sensation so subtle that that it belonged neither to dreams or waking. Her feet were suddenly cooler, as if some highly skilled servant had managed to get her boots off without waking her.

Liriel cracked open one eye and instantly came fully awake.

A peculiar creature leaned over her. It looked human but for the silky fur covering its face and limbs. Most likely male, it appeared quite old and was clad only in a long-tailed red shirt. Long, gnarled fingers reached for the strings tying the witch mask to her belt.

Liriel exploded from the bed, her back to the wall and her daggers in her hand.

The creature stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. “domovoi to the drow I have become?” it moaned. “A bad hut, this is! Better a dvorovoi it should have!”

Only then did Liriel notice the mask in the house spirit’s hand and realized that she wore her true face. A glance at her black hands confirmed this.

Thinking fast, she responded firmly, “No Dvorovoi. I mean no harm to Rashemen and want nothing to do with bad spirits.”

This apparently was the right approach. The furry being nodded approvingly. “Better in the yard they should stay. You can cook?”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

The domovoi brightened. “Then no dishes I must wash, no pots scour! But there will be milk?”

“If you want it, I’ll have someone deliver it.”

“Rothe’s milk, or goat?”

Liriel shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

“Eggs?” the spirit inquired hopefully.

The drow extended her hand for the mask, indicating a trade. The domovoi handed it over and faded from sight, but a contented little melody rose from the stove. The drow tied the mask firmly to her belt and went back to bed.

Yet sleep eluded her. Liriel opened her door and gazed toward the mountains, drinking cold tea and watching the sky brighten to silver. A single howl wafted down from the forested slopes, a wild voice that sang alone. Liriel remembered the witch’s words and lifted her mug in silent salute to a kindred spirit.

The sun was well past its zenith by the time Fyodor stood near the top of Snowcat Mountain. The young people of Dernovia had left before dawn to make the long trek up the mountain. He sought the small smudge of brown and gray far below that marked the village walls and wondered how Liriel fared.